Anzen Tower rises above Neo City like a sword suspended over the necks of its enemies. At its apex, surrounded by screens that distill information like poison processed into data, Vega Pornthip watches. She doesn't blink. Her amber eyes, cold as surgical steel, dissect every anomaly in the reports: trafficking of multi-venomous mandibles in the Shadow Market, two cyberpsychos in District 9, a leak in the transportation system.

Her black business suit—a nanofiber coffin with an open neckline—doesn't wrinkle. It doesn't stain. She wouldn't tolerate doing so. The military collar on her collarbone gleams in the artificial light, a warning medal. Her tactical gloves emit a barely audible buzz, hungry to strangle incompetence. In addition, she wears thin glasses with yellow lenses to protect the eyes from light.

An employee, the digital transit manager, or was it maintenance? It doesn't matter, he approaches. He has the stare of a beaten dog.

—"M-Miss Porn— uh, P-Pornt—"

The air freezes.

Vega doesn't turn around. She doesn't need to. Her voice cuts through the silence like a roused scalpel:

"The next time you mangle my last name, I'll rip your tongue out with your bare hands. Now. Speak. Or disappear."

The stutter turns into a muffled whimper. Screens flicker, painting her face with emergency tones.

Someone in the room coughs. Vega doesn't forgive impromptu coughs.

"Anyone else want to practice pronunciation?"

No one answers. Fine.